


Scar

by tentainokonton



Series: Vignettes: Cullen Rutherford and Dorian Pavus [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentainokonton/pseuds/tentainokonton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian's curiosity is unnerving to Cullen, who can't help but fall victim to it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar

**Author's Note:**

> Agh! This is the first piece of fanfiction I've written in years! YEARS. I feel like I'm stretching my muscles so this isn't going to be the best, but bear with me because I've jumped on the Cullen/Dorian boat and I ain't gettin' off any time soon...
> 
> This is just a one shot, but it could turn into a series if the mood strikes me and the interest is high. Let me know what you think, I appreciate any feedback!

"Commander."

"Yes, Dorian?"

"Indulge me in a curiosity?"

Cullen knows no good can ever come from a question like that, let alone from someone like Dorian Pavus. Words like 'indulge' and 'curiosity' never belong together; there's always an implication behind them, and Cullen has never been particularly good at deciphering those sorts of things.

He sets his gaze upon the other man, eyes taking in whatever information they can about his posture, his expression. The question came so casually but if Josephine has taught him anything, body language is _everything_.

"That all depends on what you ask, Dorian," he finally answers, cautious but intrigued.

Dorian shifts in his seat, easing himself forward. The corners of his eyes squint as he tries not to smile--not _too_ much. He points casually to Cullen's face and it takes him a moment before he realizes it's his scar Dorian has pinpointed.

With a tilt of his head he says, "What, my scar?"

Dorian simply nods.

"What about it?"

"Oh, come now. A handsome man such as yourself with a scar like that _clearly_ has a story to tell. And to be honest, I'm a little offended you haven't told anyone yet."

By anyone, Cullen is quite sure Dorian means him. The thought pulls the corners of his mouth into a small grin, which he quickly hides, lest the other man pokefun at him. Rather unlike Dorian (and Josephine, and Leliana, and, well, any Orlesian or Antivan he's ever met), Cullen much prefers direct communication. The idea of jumping around a topic to the point of exhaustion is not only unappealing, it's downright terrifying.

Trying to think more positively, Cullen reminds himself that if there is one thing to say about Dorian, it's that he is genuinely inquisitive.

Cullen eases back into his seat, shoulders relaxing from an unintentional hunch.

"All right, fine. But on one condition: no quips."

Dorian feigns shock, a hand coming to rest upon his chest. "Commander, as if I would." For a moment he keeps his composure, but soon he is smirking, speaking with a gesture of his hands. "Unless, of course, you got it through completely comical means, then I can't guarantee--"

"Offer retracted in five, four--"

"Oh, all right, all right! You're no fun at all."

Dorian reaches forward and playfully smacks Cullen's shoulder from across the chessboard. The sensation lingers, tingling down to his forearm and then the tips of his fingers. Cullen knows that it shouldn't feel that way, knows it shouldn't entice him so much, but physical contact for him is sparse. He knows little else aside from the intimate contact of an enemy during battle, and that certainly doesn't carry the same delicate, yet firm pressure of Dorian's rough fingertips.

Cullen is no stranger to Dorian's touch. In their time together he's experienced the gamut of what can only be described as Dorian's tactical communication style. Whether it's a slap on the back, a firm grip of his shoulder, even the casual patting on his knee, Dorian finds any excuse to slip in some sort of contact here and there.

Never once has Cullen denied him, knowing all too well that the reason why isn't exactly _appropriate_.

"It all began shortly after I was admitted into the Templar order..."

As Cullen tells his story, he can't help but notice how rapt Dorian's attention is--how the Tevinter mage seems to drink in every word, every description. His laughs are genuine and his expression alight with amusement, intrigue. While Cullen knows the story is somewhat humorous, this certainly isn't the reaction he's expecting. Unwittingly he must have broadcast his thoughts because soon Dorian is giving him the _look_ \--the kind which Cullen hasn't seen since his time in the Ferelden Circle. Those deep brown eyes are locked on his, and everything about Dorian's expression reads with simple adulation.

"Not the most interesting story, I know," Cullen admits. He shrugs his shoulders and expects that to be the end of it. His chest suddenly grows tight, his skin warm. He rubs absent-mindedly at the back of his neck.

"Not entirely, I'll admit," Dorian agrees with a wink. "I cannot lie, Commander. I was hoping it was some roguish tale involving you defending the honor of some young mage in your charge. You seem the heroic type."

It takes a moment for Cullen to register the severity of the sudden blush in his cheeks. He's only able to recognize it from the way Dorian's eyebrows raise and his head tilts ever-so-slightly. He clears his throat, now desperately wishing he'd brought along his flask of water he usually carried on him. While he's not entirely sure why his embarrassment is so severe, he can't help but feel...honored? Flattered? That Dorian would think him so heroic. Dorian's opinion--and that of his fellow inquisition companions, of course!--means a great deal to him.

He can feel Dorian's eyes resting on him and it's all he can do to keep from dismissing himself from the chessboard. Cullen has never done well with discomfort, sudden or otherwise.

"Why, Commander, did I make you _blush_?"

Did he really call him out? Of course he did. This is Dorian, Cullen reminds himself.

"Nonsense. I just--it's rather warm. It's...lyrium flush. Happens every now and again."

"Mm- _hmm_."

Dorian offers a dismissive wave of his hand. Cullen swallows roughly as he watches the mage stroke his chin. Did he believe him? Likely not. Those deep brown eyes remain on him, forcing him to the edge of his seat. Cullen's entire body feels like a tightly wound coil, ready to release at any moment, and before he knows it he's jumping to his feet as Dorian stands, much to the mage's surprise.

Time seems to come to a halt in those few moments wherein the both of them are standing completely still. The air is cold but tingling with a palpable energy which only serves to flush Cullen's cheeks further. It's ridiculous, his reaction, but not completely unfounded--he knows, he _knows_ \--but it doesn't make it any less intense.

With a curious sound Dorian reaches out, his callused fingers taking a light hold of Cullen's chin. He appraises him for what feels like an agonizing eternity before one fingertip runs the length of Cullen's scar. The sensation is unlike any other he's ever experienced with the other man--brimming with energy, arousal and excitement all at once. He exhales softly, shaking, after Dorian pulls back, and in that brief moment he feels a tugging in the pit of his stomach-- _longing_.

"You're wound awfully tight, Commander." Dorian's words are smooth, playful. He folds his arms over his chest, oozing with the self-confidence and certainty that Cullen would _kill_ for. "I daresay you need to relax."

"I'm plenty relaxed," Cullen replies immediately. He licks his lips. Maker, why do they feel so dry all of the sudden, he wonders?

"Yes, well, if you'd care to be any _more_ relaxed...feel free to let me know. Ah..." He gestures over Cullen's shoulder. "I'd suggest we finish our game but it seems we're about to be interrupted by our lovely, fearless leader. You'll understand if I don't stay--I could do without the inevitable bad news he'll bring with him."

Cullen whips his head around behind him with such speed, he swears he's thrown his neck out of alignment. Surely enough, walking with purpose through the garden is their inquisitor, his caramel colored skin and brilliant red finery warm in the sunlight.

He reaches up instinctively, fingers ghosting over his scar, his lips, his chin.

Cullen turns back, heart pounding in his chest, but Dorian is gone.


End file.
